Crossing the Acheron
by 1ceuponatime
Summary: Kratos was twenty-six years old, commander of the Tethe’alla army, and he wouldn’t wish this hell of a war on anybody. The story of the Great Kharlan War and the four heroes it created.


_Set over 4,000 years before the events of Tales of Symphonia, when the tree withered and the Great Kharlan War shook the world._

It was mid-afternoon, and on the desert's harsh sands a boy was dying.

The boy lay upon the flank of his dead horse, oblivious perhaps of the flies swarming around the beast's slashed throat and the rank bodies of his three comrades scattered around him.

It was mid-afternoon, and by nightfall the army commander would have killed four.

Kratos signaled the two men behind him to a halt and dropped quickly from the saddle to kneel beside the boy, reaching for the pulse along his neck while his other hand pressed reassuringly on his shoulder. His face was impassive as he watched the boy's eyelashes flutter weakly in his ashen face.

His name was Ladran. He was the son of one or another of his late father's aristocrat friends who hoped to gain favor by throwing his teenage son into war. Kratos despised his like, the old men who saw their sons and daughters as additions in their petty power games, and had bluntly let each of them know his opinion of them as they sidled up to him at dinner parties and court sessions in these first months of power, hoping to manipulate him as they had his father.

When Ladran reported to Kratos' division two years ago, Kratos had seen a handsome, self-centered boy who'd been given everything in his life and expected the world to continue doing so. Kratos was sure he'd be dead within three months.

But Ladran survived danger and hell longer than expected, and with his cheerful and wild personality in place. He was cunning with a sword and one of the best horsemen that Kratos had ever seen, quick to grin and quicker to make a pass at a woman. It was the irresponsible attitude that convinced Kratos that Ladran was just a bitter, scared-shitless teenager.

And in a few minutes, Ladran would be just another dead boy in this endless war.

"Commander," whispered Ladran. His eyes were closed, and Kratos almost thought he'd imagined the voice.

"How many?" asked Kratos, surprised and impressed that the boy was still conscious.

"One or two dozen—it was too fast. Got us before we placed the cameras. Half-elf with blue hair."

_Yuan_, Kratos sighed. It had probably been a small forward party, though with Yuan there it might have been a planned surprise attack. They would have been surprised as well when they ran into his scouts—what kind of fool would send them so close to the enemy's camp?

"At least my father won't win honor off my death," muttered Ladran, and Kratos felt a twinge of pity for the boy.

"You did well Ladran," said Kratos with a softer voice than he ever used among his men when they would live to remember it.

"Eh. Always thought I'd die in a woman's arms. Instead I got you, Commander." Ladran's lips twitched.

"Thanks, kid." Kratos couldn't return his smile.

"You're not…even…that much older than me…"

When Ladran was dead, Kratos tied the boy to his saddle and walked back with his two men in silence.

They sent the body back to his father in the capital, and Kratos hoped the man would look into the face of his son and feel true pain.

Kratos was twenty-six years old, commander of the Tethe'alla army, and he wouldn't wish this hell of a war on anybody.

- - - - -

Ladran's father must have been more important than Kratos had believed, because he was called back to the city for the funeral.

He disliked leaving his men so soon after the clash with Yuan, but overhead video showed the Sylvarant camp stagnant and their commander loitering among his men. Yuan was not seen. It was a large camp but still…

Kratos was worried, but the funeral provided an excuse to check on the royal family's protection. He knew there were officials that criticized his decision to travel with the army rather than remain in the palace, and he respected their fears. Tethe'alla did not need a war of succession.

He left Ralef, his most trusted division leader, in charge of his forces in his absence.

"I'll be back by nightfall. They probably know I'm leaving, which means they could try for a surprise attack. But without Yuan it doesn't seem likely. Something's wrong, for them not to press this advantage." Kratos was frowning as he inspected shifted through the few clothes he had within his quarters.

Ralef nodded, his weathered face grim as he watched his commanding officer. He'd known him since he was just a boy following his father around military camps. Not that Kratos had ever acted like a boy—he seemed to have been born with a sword in his hand and a blank expression on his face. It had taken years before Kratos would smile in his presence.

"Fuck it," Kratos muttered as he threw his clothes back into drawers and grabbed a black military uniform.

"You'll be wearing your sword too then?" joked Ralef.

"If this is a real funeral, there are more important things than what I'm wearing. If this is another ploy to gain political sympathy, then I'll need something to split open a few heads."

Ralef laughed softly. "You would too. Just be careful. We don't need a new commander any time soon."

Kratos grunted. "Keep lookouts on the north cliff. Radio me as soon as anything happens. _Anything_, Ralef."

"Yes sir." Ralef saluted, but couldn't stop himself from adding, "Please pass my regards to the princess."

Kratos scowled and ignored him. "I'm taking Clarke and Devane with me to replace the royal guard, you'll need men to cover their squadrons. Keep watch on the Sylvarant camp. Something doesn't feel right."

- - - - -

The blonde boy was watching the clouds when he saw the three shapes flit through the sky. He didn't have much else to do at the time besides panic and drown in misery, so watching the clouds did just fine.

It wasn't enough, however, to distract him from the aching of his arms and the stinging of his wrists as they were rubbed raw by the rope tying his hands behind a metal pole. It kept him securely on his bottom in the midst of the smelly human soldiers that ignored him beyond throwing the occasional rock or fruit. It was hot too, though the sun was finally beginning to fall in the sky the sand remained painfully hot on his exposed legs.

He couldn't stop thinking about his sister either, but he'd long since abandoned every escape plan he could think of that would keep both of them safe.

Had his hands been free, he would have rubbed his eyes and wondered if he even saw the shapes in the sky at all, or if anxiety and hunger had finally taken their toll on his mind.

"Hey vermin," barked a soldier with a thick, filthy beard and rancid breath who grinned as he smacked the boy across the face with the butt of his sword. "It's your time to shine. Maybe if you do good enough we'll let the pretty half-elf survive well and whole. Well," he guffawed, "maybe not entirely _whole_, if you get my meaning."

The boy looked up him with a stoic expression despite his smarting cheek, and the dark look in his eyes caused the man to withdraw unconsciously. "If you people so much as touch my sister, you'll find my magic directed right at your filthy carcasses," he said with level intensity, hatred in his every word.

"Well just do what we tell you and you'll keep her alive," snapped the soldier, angry at being intimidated by a child, and half-elf child no less.

The blond boy was silent as his bonds were cut and he raised himself unsteadily to his feet. He seemed to forget that the man was there as he raised his face to gaze upwards, looking for something he could no longer find.

The soldier noticed that his eyes were the exact same shade as the sky.

- - - - -

End Chapter One

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